Long Bustard Narrow Gauge Railway, Part3.

Chapter Nine.
More Santa Grief.

It had snowed during the night on Thursday. The snow had settled and more had arrived Friday. Santa Trains ran on the Saturday in very pretty countryside with the trees covered in ice on their branches and the hedges and fields all white. It then thawed a little that afternoon, but not completely. Sunday morning arrived and the loco crew were busy lighting up No4. It was bitterly cold and the thermometer had dropped to minus eight during the night. As things had begun to thaw on the Saturday, water had run into all sorts of places and was about to cause havoc, not only on the town’s roads, footpaths and main line railways. It was to make the DM’s day very interesting on the LBLR as well. The DM for Sunday, the last running day before Christmas Day, was Ann.

The Loco Crew had already arrived when Ann unlocked and opened the station building. The three crew were again Martin as the driver, Dave as the fireman and Keith as the cleaner. They were not having a very good time of it. On the board that was put out on the station front door a sheet was showing that all seven trains were booked up solid. Every train was full. It was no use any members of the public arriving hoping to get a trip as was possible earlier in the month. Today was going to be very, very busy indeed. But No4 was not behaving herself.

“This ruddy kindling wood is so wet I cannot get it to burn. I’ll have to use some rags soaked in diesel oil,” Dave informed Martin.

Martin replied, “We need to get steam up by ten, that gives us just over two hours to boil up her seventy gallons of water in the boiler. I’ve been down to the water tower on platform one and it is frozen up. Or rather the valve is frozen and we will need water before we go out on the first train. Keith, get the oxy-acetylene bottles out and heat up that water valve.” Oxygen and acetylene are gasses used for heating and welding metal.

“Right,” Keith replied, “Once I’ve cleaned the footplate and wiped an oily rag over the soot on top of the boiler behind the chimney.”

Whilst No4 always looked pristine in her dark blue paint first thing, by the last train she was decidedly dirty, mostly with soot from her chimney. It was the loco crew who would clean her whilst her water was being heated up in the morning. All this was being done by the lights inside the shed as it was still dark outside. Because of the complaints of noise from certain local householders, No4 was being lit up inside the shed. As it was so cold the smoke and fumes from her chimney were hanging around so the shed slowly became full of them. Coal has quite an acrid smell once burnt caused by the sulphur in it. There were icicles everywhere as the water from the previous day’s thaw had re-frozen as it dripped off roofs and trees. The snow was ice-hard and did not give way when walked on.

With the water tower’s valve warmed up it was decided to run No4 round to it to fill up before she returned back to reverse onto her carriages. Then the first major problem arrived. The air brakes did not work. Martin waggled the brake lever about, he could hear the Westinghouse air pump working away. The brake reservoir pressure gauge read 100psi, but there was no reading on the brake application pressure gauge and nothing came out of the air pipes when Dave opened a tap. No4 also had a hand brake worked by a hand wheel but the air brakes were needed for her train. The carriage brakes were operated by compressed air. After about ten minutes Dave decided to run round to get the water and whilst there play the flames of the oxy-acetylene on the copper air pipes on the loco to try to melt the water that had obviously turned to ice inside them. This ice was blocking the main air pipe.

Then the next problem arrived. Whilst the point levers in the shed yard worked, the set on the frame that let them onto the main line were frozen solid. Water had run into all the joints and then frozen to lock the lot up. They could not now get to the water tower on platform one. By now some of the station staff were arriving as well as the guard Pete and his assistant Rob. All were directed by Ann to chip away ice from the points and from between the point rail blades. By now No4 had boiled up her water and the safety valves were blowing off as the steam pressure rose past its maximum of 150psi (pounds per square inch). Hopefully as the boiler and fire worked, the heat would soak into the framework and perhaps melt that ice blockage in the air pipe. Martin had muttered to himself that the system should have been designed with a drain valve at its lowest point, but then hindsight is always right he thought. It was still about minus four degrees outside and now it was light everything was really pretty in a wintry Christmas card sort of way. Our intrepid loco team were too busy to notice though.

Eventually the main line points were made to operate, but Ann insisted they be clamped (held in position by a ‘G’ clamp) as the locking lever on the points frame would not fully go ‘home’. No4 crept out to the platform to fill her water tanks. The valve on the tower had by now re-frozen itself so Keith had to heat it up again taking more time. The clock had now moved on to ten o’clock and they had forty minutes left to get the carriages out to the platform. Pete and Rob, having helped clear the points, set about sweeping out the carriages of the previous days Santa Special and checking the brake pipes and carriage connections. The water only dribbled into No4 from the tower. It was also obvious that the ball cock in the big tank above the rails was also frozen up. No one could hear the tank refilling from it. It was just a simple ball cock as found in any domestic toilet or water tank and someone would have to climb up there and thaw it out. As the tank was round and covered in thick frost and twenty feet up, there were no volunteers for some time. It would have to be thawed by midday as No4 would by then need more water.

By half past ten the station was filling up with exited children, grandparents, aunts, uncles and even a few parents. The car park was filling up, some drivers skidding all over the place on the slight gradient at the entrance. Few these days knew how to drive on snow. BMWs were the worst offenders with their rear-wheel drive. A junior threw some ash onto the problem area, the LBLR had plenty of ash. By now No4 was full and had enough water for two trips so she ran back into the shed yard to back down road four onto her carriages waiting there ready. Pete connected up the two hoses for the brakes after dropping the pin into the coupling so now No4 was connected to its train. With a blast on his whistle he told Martin, the driver, the train was ready to be pulled out. But then the next problem arrived. When the carriages had been put to bed the previous day, the brakes had been wet due to the melted snow and ice on the rails. The water had sat between the brake blocks and the wheel rims overnight and all were now locked solid with ice. As No4 pulled the carriages out, or at least tried to, the carriage wheels just skidded even though the brake valve in the loco cab was set to ‘off’. The ice blockage had still not cleared so the brakes could not be operated to clear them.

Then Rob surprised everyone. He grabbed a big six-foot, heavy steel crow bar and hit each brake block with it very hard. This shattered the ice locking them. He ran down the entire train doing this and ice particles fairly flew about. Pete watched him open mouthed. Rob was no ‘Brain of Britain’ but there were times when he had his moments.

As the train now slowly moved out onto road four for its normal brake checks, Pete asked Rob, “ Where the hell did you learn that trick?”

“The wheels on our old bailer used to lock up like that when it rusted up out of use and I did that to it to free them. And when we converted it to a trailer for the pig swill, in the winter I had to smash the ice off its steel wheels just like I did there,” he replied.

“Bloody well done lad, you might have saved the day,” Pete congratulated him. The two then set about the emergency brake checks required prior to any train being used to carry the public as passengers.

By now it was getting on for eleven o’clock and the first train still had not left. It should have gone at ten-forty but the train had failed its air brake check. The ice was still in that pipe acting as a blockage. A quick thinking Ann then told John to leave the shop, start up the diesel loco and put it behind No4 but in front of the carriages; John being a diesel driver. The diesel would supply the braking power for the train. A spotty, teenage junior member was grabbed from nicking free sweets from the Mince Pie & Hot Punch table in the Café and shoved behind the shop counter. As well as a steam engine ride, passengers either had a present from Santa if a child or a hot mince pie and punch in the Café if an adult. Junior members can have their uses at times. No4 was disconnected and the diesel started up. The diesel was a big green monster of a thing, originally meant to pull construction trains about huge building sites such as the channel tunnel. Now, with a smart, enclosed, insulated, heated steel cab and shiny green paint sporting the LBLR logo each side, it took up its position at the head of the carriages and the brake checks were done in a trice. No4 backed on to the diesel so now the four maroon carriages were double-headed. That means the train had two engines. There was enough power there to pull ten trains! This impressed the anoraks in the passenger crowds who soon got their cameras out.

The train now at last made its way to platform two to collect its passengers. No4 had been brewing up her steam now and the boiler pressure was again almost at its maximum. She had a habit of blowing off her safety valves suddenly, not gently like the other steam engines. She gave no warning and when they blew it made quite a few passengers jump. A squirrel in the tree above who had got hungry and woke up to come out for a bit of food almost got scalded by the vertical jet of steam. Each run was thirty minutes long with a maximum of twenty-five children on each. Each stop was fifteen minutes so that gave Santa about two minutes per child between each train arriving. This kept down the queues. Time was ticking by and by the time the train had collected its load from the platform after another fifteen minutes spent clearing more ice from the points that had re-frozen since its first clearing, the three carriages were now carrying the first two train loads. That is, fifty children with at least two parents and a grandparent or aunty each, so getting on for nearly one hundred and fifty people or even more. Then the next problem arrived.

As the train leaves platform two, the track rises and climbs for about two hundred yards till it levels off flat. The rails not only had snow on them, but as the track ran alongside the town’s pretty Town Park under some very big horse chestnut trees, under that snow was rock hard ice. The ice had dripped as melt-water from the tree branches the afternoon previous and the bitterly cold frost overnight had turned it into ice that stuck to the rail top as if part of the steel structure.

At first the train began to pull away normally but then No4s' six wheels began to slip and spin on the icy rail as she climbed the gradient. This heated up the ice so some of it melted. This water then lay on top of the ice underneath it so the diesel also began to slip and its wheels to began to spin. Whilst the passengers could hear No4s' chimney beat speeding away as its wheels slipped, the train slowed down to almost a stop. But at least this time the LBLR train crew were ready. In the loco cabs and the guards vans they carried long plastic tubes of dry sand. Rob and Keith leapt out and began trickling sand onto the rails ahead of the train. Pete stayed in the guards van with his hand on both the emergency and the hand wheel brakes, just in case the train began to slip backwards. But the keen train spotters in the carriages heard No4s' chimney beat suddenly slow down to a loud and slow but powerful chuff-chuff-chuff as her wheels bit into the sand particles and the loco was once again under control and accelerating.

With the train now away from the station Ann went back to her office. She had not had time to do all the things a DM has to do first thing. But things were looking up as three of the older junior members had set out the cones in the car park for her. They had then opened the gates to the public car park, put out the ‘Open’ signs on the road, opened the shop window shutters and sprinkled rock salt on the tarmac between the station and the café, station and the toilets and the station and the platforms. She smiled to herself because she knew it would have been the youngest of this three who would have driven such good efforts. A future chairman of the Railway perhaps?

Then the loco driver Martin called Ann on his mobile phone and informed her that the points at Longtown Loop were also frozen up. The loco crew had found this once they arrived and tried to run the engines around their train. She detailed Ted from the Café to take the oxyacetylene bottles there by car, so the points could be de-iced. This left her to assist in the now filling up Café, passengers for the third train of the day were arriving when the first and second lot had not even returned yet. Everyone had timed tickets and she told them that anyone with a ticket for any train could go on any train, the timetable was inoperative. Just get on the next train that comes in. The only person this upset was Santa as he was inundated after having an hour of unexpected peace and quiet.

Santa was not an easy job, not many wanted to do it. You had to be able to speak to children on their level. The answers one had would fill their own book. The quality of the presents was exceptional as the Railway was not a profit making business and had no wages bill. Half the fare went on the present, the other half to the running and rebuilding funds.

It took ages for the points at Longtown Loop to be thawed out so the returning ‘first’ train would arrive back as the ‘third’. En route back, about ten minutes from the station, it began snowing again. This time it was a complete white-out. The snow was falling so dense visibility was down to a few feet only. As No4 was now on the back of the train, which on this return journey is the front of the train, she was running backwards. That meant the cab’s front was useless in such weather. The three loco crew were covered in freezing snow. Just as they arrived at the station the snow stopped. Standing across the footplate, gazing forward, were what appeared to be three snowmen. Their backs were hot from the fire and boiler, their fronts frozen snow! Some waiting passengers took photos on their mobile phones to show their friends. The diesel of course, has a full cab with doors and a heater, and windscreen wipers.

The rest of the Santa and Mince Pie trains went without incident all being diesel pulled after Dave grounded No4 for its still leaking regulator. Only that first train ran with a steam engine that day.

********

By mid January Rodney made his second court appearance only to be re-bailed to February. This was a ruse by the legal profession so as to be able to claim more money from the Legal Aid system as they were paid for each ‘appearance’. After all the government consisted of lawyers so why not look after the boys at the tax-payers expense. Rodney had offered to plead guilty as he knew he stood not a chance against the evidence but his lawyer told him to do as he was told and not upset the apple cart. He could plead guilty on the last appearance when the court could not think of anything else to put the case off for. Rodney knew if he pleaded guilty the sentence would be that much lighter, he might even avoid a custodial one.

********

In the huge gleaming headquarters of the company of Graham Green Developments, normally only known by the initials GGD, the big Boss was sitting in his posh multi-functional office chair behind his deeply varnished dark-wood desk. In front of the desk was his lackey who was awaiting instructions for the day.

“Well my man, how goes the little problem in Long Bustard then?” he enquired.

“We have hit a problem. Our front-line man has been taken off the job by the law,” the lackey told his boss.

“What are you going to do about it? Not that I really want to know what your devious little mind dreams up.”

“We will have to search out another one. He was doing quite well as well, but obviously was not up to the job,” the lackey continued, “I will have to sort out my contact there.”

“I sincerely hope that there is no way any of this can be traced back to us in the smallest detail,” the boss said in a voice full of menace. “If this company was ever involved in subterfuge or even suspected of being so it would ruin us. You would lose a lot more than your job my man and you will end up with a very high Castrato voice. Get my meaning?”

“Yes Sir,” a meek little voice answered, a hand automatically going to protect his groin. “I’ll get that collection of scrap iron off that land if it’s the last thing I do. We are already laying the overburden from our other quarries in the area in to the pit next to them. Once stabilised we can start building houses later this year.”

February saw huge earth moving equipment arrive at the old quarry next to the LBLR station and then a continuous line of big HGVs full of clay began their six-months work delivering the medium to fill in the big hole from adjacent quarries. Where once the little railway station had had a view of the Town Park one side and a wide open country view the other over the quarry, it was all going to change very soon. The land that the station, the car park, Café and shed stood on would be sufficient for a few hundred new house. The old quarry would accommodate about two thousand more.

*******

The LBLR was using the non-operational weeks in the first two months of the year to catch up on its permanent way maintenance. Once trains were running again when the season started at Easter the railway must be safe. Whilst the railway lines, sleepers, points, signals and ballast are termed ‘permanent’ this was a misnomer. The sleepers rotted, the rails moved in their spikes, the gauge opened out, the ground heaved, points did not line up and rods required adjusting. In 1919 as the line was originally laid without any cuttings or embankments and simply ran around the edges of what was then fields, it twisted and wandered up and down all over the place. This did add quite an air to it as to drive a steam loco along the line was an art. Many a visiting loco had broken a spring or a spring hanger, dropped fire bars, run out of steam or simply jumped the rails because the crew were not used to having to really drive their steed. Such visitors often ran along nice flat straight lines one mile one way, and back again on their home patch. To have to keep the fire going so as to provide steam all the time needed a dedicated experienced fireman and the line a tough loco.

The permanent way team (PW) consisted of Martin, Dave, John and Ted. The four of them used the railway as a three-mile-long gymnasium. The hard laborious work certainly kept them fit. In the past they had used the counties Community Service Order people. These were lads who had been awarded community service as punishment in the Magistrates Court but were thought better used on decent jobs. Then one year this CSO team had arrived and along with two-dozen railway members they set about a line-length litter pick. As soon as the supervising probation officer found out they were to pick up litter, he objected on the grounds it was too demeaning. It seemed OK for the members to carry out this task so no one understood why the CSO group refused. After that the LBLR did not invite them back.

“Cor, my back is beginning to ache,” John complained as he swung a pick-axe into the compacted ballast each side of a failing wooden sleeper.

“I know what you mean, it’s my shoulders that always ache the next day. One certainly gets to use muscles that one did not know existed in this job,” answered Ted. “At least I get to take photos of actual work on the railway and not just steam trains for the magazine.” Ted was the society’s magazine editor as well as Café volunteer and PW team member.

Dave staggered up to the pair with a sleeper on his shoulders, which he threw down onto the ground near them. Then he tottered off again to the engineering train to collect yet another new sleeper from one of the open wagons having picked up the very rotten one removed. This he threw into a drop-sided wagon full of litter, rotten sleepers and rubbish destined for the bonfire at The Henge. The sleeper would be taken back to The Henge Works for burning as it was far too rotten to sell to any keen gardeners, the usual fate of any old semi-decent ones. Such sales, no matter how small, were all funds for the railway.

“Dave, have you set up Pete with any more with oil leaking from his old motorcycle?” asked John maliciously, knowing it was a sore point.

“Bog off John, you know damned well I’m avoiding him after he attacked me for what was only a little joke,” replied Dave. “If the old sod cannot take a joke he should not have joined up I say.”

Martin was busy hacking away with a pick-axe as well and now rammed its point firmly into the rotten sleeper so he could pull it out from under the rails. The rails had been jacked up a little to give clearance so the sleeper slid out and Dave shoved in a new one directly behind it end-on as the old one slid out. Then Ted swung a big sledge-hammer and drove in a spike each side of each rail as Martin held a rail gauge between the rails; this ensured they were the correct distance apart. They had done about ten sleepers so far and had another dozen or so to do on this section of the line. They were all sweating with the hard work. Once the sleeper was spiked it required the ballast ramming under it so it supported the rail again. This was the hardest job and they took turns using a device similar to a road-breaking gun powered by a compressor on a truck in the train. It vibrated the stones under the sleeper as well as sending your fingers white after a while when operating it.

*******

Chapter Ten.
Deja vu.

The phone rang and Rodney picked it up to answer it. It was his legal team and tomorrow was his day at court.

“Hello, Rodders here.”

“Rodney, I want you to be at the court early tomorrow and to still plead not guilty. Do you understand?” his brief told him.

“Why? I’m fed up with all this. Why can’t I plead guilty and get it over and done with?” Rodney asked.

“My son, if the prosecution fail to turn up all their witnesses the case cannot be proven. I want you there to tell me about each witness, then we can see how strong their case is. I’m not letting a silly little thing like justice get in the way of my winning the case. If some, or even just one, of their main witnesses fails to turn up, we will win. But if they all turn up, you then plead guilty, right?” he was told.

“If all the witnesses turn up I can plead guilty?” Rodney repeated, “OK.”

At 9am the next day Rodney was outside the courthouse with his brief. It was soon very obvious that all the necessary witnesses were also arriving all having been warned the week before. By 10am when the court sat Rodney was ready to plead guilty. He was ushered into the little courtroom and into the accused’s box. Then the magistrates came in and everyone sat down.

“Rodney William Jones, how do you wish to plead to the charges made against you?” asked the big man sat at the centre of the Bench.

“Guilty your honour,” was his simple reply.

“No need to say your honour, we are all worships here,” the big man told Rodney. Rodney did not understand but his brief waved him down indicating to him to shut up.

“Right, you plead guilty to criminal damage of a railway platform and to an attempt burglary of the Café at the same location,” he said and then turned to each of the magistrates each side and mumbled something. Turning back he continued, “You have quite a list of previous convictions, all minor annoying things I see. We have agreed to give you one more chance but the next time you will go to prison. You are awarded one hundred hours community service. Thank you.”

And that was that.

Amongst those witnesses leaving the court having not been called to give evidence were Martin and our travellers scout. Martin caught up with him and asked him a question.

“Do you think he got a decent punishment?”

“No, not I. Should ‘ave bin put away, they are terrified of overfilling the prisons these days,” he answered and then continued, “We will be movin’ on the ‘morrow as the Council has served papers on us to quit the land.”

“Going anywhere interesting,” Martin began to ask but was rudely interrupted by a big man in a hat and old raincoat who had materialised in front of them.

“Mr Smith, I am arresting you on a warrant from Midshire Constabulary over some thefts there last year. I am Detective Sergeant Jones and this constable will take you to a police station to await collection,” the traveller was told.

“Well, looks like I’m goin’ somewhere interestin’ after all. Cheerio mate, good luck with your railway mate,” and that was the last Martin ever saw of him.

*******

The LBLR Executive Committee were sitting around their committee table in their chambers. This was a Formica topped table in the Café as usual. This one had a table napkin folded in four rammed under one leg as the floor was not level. It was early evening and the Railway AGM was due the next weekend. They were meeting to decided about the next years projected work on the line, maintenance and any new projects required. One thing that came up, as it did every year, was how to keep the main line in good condition when running trains. The numbers of volunteers was limited and usually by the end of the season in October the list of faults on the permanent way could be very large.

“Why do we not try these CSO teams again? Perhaps they are a bit more into actually doing some work now,” Ann suggested to the assembly of Martin, Pete and John. CSO stood for Community Service Orders, these were the people who had been found guilty in a court and given community service. The Probation Service was supposed to run it, but like everything else within the legal system it was hidebound with red tape. Amongst those who were on CSO s it was a bit of a joke.

“I used to supervise and organise these CSO working teams ages ago. By the time they arrive, get sorted out, have their lunch and go home early to miss the traffic they have done virtually no work. Unlike us they do not start at 8am and work until 6 or 7pm with a 30minute meal break midday. No, they arrive at 10am, lunch from 12 to 1, and leave at 3pm. Just compare our ten hours to their four!” Martin told them.

“But why not try them anyway?” butted in Pete, “ As Ann says they might be better now.”

“OK, we will apply for a CSO team to assist with the maintenance team on the PW gang,” Martin agreed.

********

Rodney had an appointment with his probation officer and was walking to the probation office. He had to cross the town’s park to get to it and glanced across at the little railway station the other side. Normally the huge trees blocked any view but as it was winter there were no leaves. He also noticed lots of activity in the old quarry the other side of the station. They must be filling it in he thought. There had been something about lots of new houses in the local paper, the LBO. Rodney was a bit fed up, he was heading towards his thirtieth birthday and still had no real prospects. His father had worked on the original narrow gauge railway as a diesel fitter in its industrial days but he had passed on years ago, dying of cancer from smoking roll-up cigarettes. Only his mother was left and she had a very poor view of her son.

Rodney walked into the offices of the Probation Service; he had been here before on many occasions. He gave his name to the girl at the reception desk and was directed to a long line of chairs in the corridor, told to sit down and wait his turn. After about thirty minutes he was ushered into an office and sat opposite a very weary looking middle-aged man who looked very pale. The office was understaffed, he was overworked and each ‘customer’ created a mountain of paperwork.

“Rodney Jones?” he asked.

“Yes,” Rodney replied.

“Met you before haven’t I, been on our books for a few years now. What’s it for this time?” the man asked.

“Criminal damage and attempt burglary. We did not intend to burgle anywhere but the coppers insisted on charging me with it,” Rodney began to explain.

“OK, OK sonny, I get the picture. So you have a community service order it says here,” he said flicking through a rather thick file for this ‘customer’, “I have just the job for you, nice and near to where you live as well. No need to transport you anywhere. Yes, they need a couple of lads at the Long Bustard Light Railway. Know it do you?”

“Well, yes I do as a matter of fact. My Dad worked there.” Rodney thought this might just be ideal as he could perhaps earn a bit more money causing problems from ‘inside’ the railway. The probation officer would not know the details of any offender’s crimes, just the hours they had to do and any previous convictions. That day the officer found a few more local CSOs to work on the railway.

*********

The LBLR was modernising its signalling system. The old ‘token’ system was to be phased out and a radio controller installed at the tiny station. The idea of a ‘token’ is that the loco driver has it with him. If he has the token no one else can run a train on that bit of line, or ‘section’ as it is called. The LBLR was in two halves, or two sections, so there were two tokens. Over the years they had proven to be a nuisance, easily lost or mislaid, or at the ‘wrong’ end of the line when needed. Sometimes they had even been left on the top of the token box at Longtown Loop so the train arrived at one end without one! Radio control was going to be far easier. Each locomotive was to be fitted with radio equipment and the crews trained to use it. The whole days operation would then be taped on a little cassette recorder and the tapes kept for three months then re-used. The authorities who sanctioned little narrow gauge railways to carry fare paying passengers safely were very pleased with the idea and thought it would enhance the already good record of the LBLR. The LBLR was one of the first to use this system, pioneers in fact. The steam locos would have a tiny aerial on their cab roof, but it was so insignificant not many people would even notice it. Should the radio system fail for any reason the ‘token’ system could be used again as a back-up emergency system.

George was a senior member of the Society. Over the years he had done almost every job there was on the railway and had masses of experience. But old age had taken its toll when he had suffered a mild stroke which left him having to use a crutch and with a slight speech impediment. He thought this was the end of his participation in running the LBLR. But when the EC began looking for someone to run the Radio Control System, he fitted the bill perfectly. He need not move about, he could use a radio, the job was a seated one in a warm office, he knew the railway and its rules back to front and inside out and everyone respected him.

The first week in the new year running season began at the Spring Bank Holiday. The radio signally system and the token system were to be run side-by-side until everything was bedded in and working properly and everyone understood it. A trial had taken place with just a locomotive on the main line radioing in at the relevant places and the ‘radio controller’ giving the relevant permissions to enter or leave various sections. There had only been one gap in the transmissions and that had been when Dave was driving with Keith as fireman and they had seen a young blonde girl jogging by in the park next to the railway. In her hot-pants and flowing locks she had taken their attention away from the loco for a few seconds.

“How’s it all going?” Martin asked George as he arrived in the general office to catch up on paperwork.

“OK so far,” replied George,” I want to get this all up and running before the wife and I go off for a mid-week holiday.”

“Going anywhere nice?”

“Yes, Sidmouth in Devon. We used to take the children there when they were young, never found a hotel that would take the dog though,” George said.

“I got round that, we put the kids in the kennels and take the dog. Much nicer and quieter that way,” Martin joked. “Did you know we are to take on CSO lads again?” he continued.

“No, I thought it had been voted a waste of time by the EC years ago,” replied George.

“Thought we would try again but with some qualifications. The CSO lads are to live locally, do a full days work and provide their own overalls and safety shoes. We’ll do the rest such as supervision and job allocation along with any risk assessments needed.”

“Risk assessments, how on earth did we manage before ruddy risk assessments? A whole new industry of red taped,” complained George.

“Got to be done these days of the Nanny State you know. It’s all in the government’s policy of total people control,” smirked Martin.

“If you did a proper risk assessment of life you would not come out of the womb!” opined George, “ Nor would you get out of bed or drive a car. I have to walk these days and use the bus to get about. They took my licence off me so I cannot drive a car. Have you seen how many damned cars block the pavements? Who does the risk assessment on being run over on the footpath by a 4x4 being driven by a tiny woman who cannot see over the steering wheel I ask?”

George was beginning to get up onto his soapbox so Martin went to do his admin. A new CSO lad allocated to them was due to report the next day and Martin needed to get everything ready in terms of insurance, etc.

******

It was a clear Tuesday morning and the two grumpy old men whose lives now evolved around this day of the week arrived in the staff car park. Both opened their hatchback tailgates and took out a pair of neatly folded overalls, a pair of steel capped safety boots and their lunches in plastic boxes.

“What you got today in your ‘piece’ mate?” asked the first as they toddled up the platform with their walking sticks to the engine shed. Calling his lunch a ‘piece’ certainly dated the two, such a local word had long gone out of use.

“Sandwiches I hope, brought the flaming box with the bacon in it last time. The wife uses about five similar plastic boxes and I pulled the wrong one from the fridge.”

“Must put the kettle on soon as we unlock, I need a cup of tea,” the first replied.

“Martin phoned me last night to say a young lad might arrive when we do. He is a CSO chap and is to work here as his punishment,” the second said, “ but we are not supposed to know that. It’s a secret but I overheard Martin on the phone.”

“So what the hell are we being punished for Eh? I’ve been here over forty years, must have done something really bad for that length of time,” the first added.

“It’s because you nicked my girlfriend back in ’39 mate. Serves you right.”

“No, I’m already being punished for that by having to work with you.”

By then the shed side-door had been unlocked and the kettle filled and switched on. The power absorbed by switching on the kettle had dimmed the neon lights in the roof of the shed a little. Across the park walking towards the railway was Rodney Jones. He had his hands in his pockets and a little canvas bag over his shoulder. His mother had made him a sandwich for his midday lunch and had found his Grandfather’s old WW2 army bag that his Dad had continued to use for his lunch when he had worked on the old industrial railway. Somewhere in the muddled mind of Rodney sparked a tiny bit of nostalgia for the bag. Rodney knew about the side-door to the shed so walked in and looked about. He saw two decrepit old men drinking tea by a bench.

“Come in lad, welcome to the funny farm,” enjoined the first old boy. “Have you any engineering experience?”

“No, none,” was all he got from Rodney.

“Here, have a cuppa,” offered the second, “Cup of tea first thing sets you up for the day. We use an electric kettle here, water tastes much better than if you boil it on gas.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Rodney. He would need to get used to the masculine humour of the shed very quickly if he was to fit in.

“We put a pound in the kitty every time it runs out. Lasts for ages and the lad who runs it buys a lottery ticket each week from the profit. Not for us mind you, but for the railway. God only knows what would happen if we ever won, Eh?” the second chap informed Rodney.

Then the two gave him a tour of the shed and machine shop, and the need to use a barrier cream on his hands, where the first aid box was and finally where the loo and hand washing facilities were. Barrier cream was required as working with old oil and grease can affect the skin and cause dermatitis. Rodney just stood and stared at the ancient stone sink with just a cold water tap, the dirt floor and the lean-too ‘earth-closet’ toilet outside. It reminded him of the films he had seen of Victorian industry. He was warned of the many ‘trip hazards’ there were on the earth floor such as working pits to give access to underneath the rails, electric cable running to a drill someone might be using, bits of loco lying about waiting to be fitted and so on.

“Because we often deal with the results of a fire that burns coal and leaves ashes, you never know what other chemicals might be in the soot and mixed with any oil, so you must use barrier cream or use gloves. That is important or you might develop a skin condition OK?” The first old boy told Rodney. “Old grumpy here will confirm all that,” he continued nodding towards his companion.

“Its all Double-Dutch to me,” the second chap said, “I’ve been working in filthy oil and muck since I was an apprentice nearly sixty years ago. I ain’t never had any problems with my skin.”

“Yes, but you must have developed a resistance to it,” the first added.

By then Bert the diesel Hod had arrived and it was he who was going to take Rodney under his wing. Well, to be more correct Bert had been told ‘a CSO chap’ not that it was to actually be Rodney. Bert walked up to the trio and held out his right hand as if to welcome the newcomer by shaking hands. But when Bert saw who the chap was his face fell, as did his hand.

“You! What the hell…” Bert started to say but stopped himself because Rodney’s face was also looking startled.

“Hello Mr. Williams, yes it’s me. I’m here to pay back my debts to the railway by working for you,” Rodney said swallowing hard. He could still feel the pain when Bert had slammed his fingers in the car door all those years ago, when Rodney had been caught red-handed stealing from it. He thought to himself that perhaps he had better behave if Bert worked here as well. It was easy to fool the legal system and run rings round all those social workers, but a chap like Bert did not suffer fools gladly. Bert dished out instant justice.

“I knew your Dad, he was a damn good diesel fitter. Do you have any mechanical ability Jones?” Bert asked him.

“I like mechanical things but I’ve never really got stuck in,” Rodney replied.

Bert then took him into the shed and set about training him up and getting him to work on the diesel locos. As the two ancient gents who had been standing near by listening moved off to get some work done, the number one spoke.

“He will need toughening up, did you see how lily-white his soft hands were?”

“Probably spent their lives filling out benefit forms,” was the reply.

*******

“George, have you seen that letter from the Council anywhere?” asked Martin.

“What letter?” George replied.

“The reply over the missing tourist signs.”

“It’s in the filing cabinet I should think,” George said.

Martin rummaged about in an old wooden filing cabinet that had seen better days. It had thin metal strips round it between the three big drawers to hold it together and various bits of wood stuck to it to cover up holes. It was so full that if a draw was pulled out fully you had to put your knee underneath it or the whole lot was liable to tip forward. Unlike modern steel cabinets it was also possible to open two full draws at once, which was very dangerous as it weighed a lot.

“Got it. At last the Council is to put up new direction signs on the roads so people can find us. If they currently use their Sat-Nav with our post-code, that just sends them into the industrial estate opposite. I wonder what ever happened to the original ones? They were made of aluminium, probably stolen by the Pikeys and sold as scrap metal I suppose.”

Just then the front door bell rang. The station was not open for the public so a little radio-door bell was put on the door so that any deliveries could be attended to. Martin went to see who was calling.

“Oh, hello,” said a middle aged man as Martin opened the door, “ I want to see someone about one of your road crossings if I may.”

“Come in, I’m the manager so I should be able to help.”

“Well,” said the gent as Martin shut the door behind him, “Last night I was driving into the town along Stanbridge Road, it was quite late you know, and when I came to your level crossing I saw a young lad about twelve to fourteen years perhaps, standing in the road. He surprised me and I nearly hit him. Anyway, I pulled over and stopped and walked back to the crossing to make sure he was OK, but there was no sign of him. I had a good look about, but nothing. Then a strange sound came from somewhere nearby, it was a woman crying. I suppose you think this a bit odd, but I called just in case any of your staff knew of him.”

Martin stood very still and looked hard at the man. He was obviously telling the truth but did he know any of the railway’s history?

“What time was this?” Martin asked.

“Oh, it must have been about midnight, perhaps even later,” he replied, “Oh, and it was raining hard.”

“Well, no one has come in to tell me anything. Can I take your details please as I might need to get back to you,” and with that Martin wrote them into the diary.

When the gent had gone Martin picked up the phone. He dialled the police station and asked to speak to Sgt Bloggs. His luck was in as the Sgt was on duty but out on patrol, the lady told Martin she would get the Sgt to call in at the station to see him. Martin thanked her and carried on with some admin tasks. After about three quarters of an hour the station’s door bell again rang out. Martin opened the door and let in the police sergeant

“Hello Martin, what makes you phone the police on a nice quiet day like today? I was out sunning myself up the Downs you know then my radio tells me to come and see you,” the Sgt said.

“Well, I have something a bit odd to tell you, sit down and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

Once the tea was brewed Martin then relayed the story the middle-aged gent had relayed to him earlier that morning. The Sgt’s eyebrows raised and he sucked in a big breath through pursed lips.

“Oh, oh I say. Well, that’s why you called,” the Sgt began, “ We had this some years ago…”

“Twenty years to be exact,” Martin butted in.

“…but we never got to the bottom of it did we? Now it was you who suggested that it was the ghost of some lad killed whilst doing flag duty on the crossing was it not?” The Sergeant had only just joined the force back then, and was a beat bobby whose area included the level crossing in question.

“Yes that was my supposition. But ghosts really? Though his story is very similar to the one all those years ago even down to the crying. One must suppose that was the boy’s mother,” Martin opined. “ We must keep this quiet and possibly see if it blows over?”

“Yes, for now, but I want to know of any further incidents see,” the Sgt told Martin, finished his tea and thanking him then left.

The Sgt and Martin had been involved in a midnight incident years ago where a car driver had seen a boy standing in the road appearing to wave a red flag. But the driver was local and knew the trains did not run in the dark and there had been no industrial trains for twenty odd years back then. The boy was too young today to be a flagman with the LBLR as the law forbid using anyone under sixteen. This driver had swerved and hit the kerb bursting his tyre. He had called the police in case he had also hit the lad but nothing was ever found. What made it memorable was that the driver and the constable attending had all heard the crying of a woman.

*****

In the shiny immaculate head office of GGD the big boss was reading his letters. Ghosts were a million miles away from his mind, he was far more involved in trying to get four thousand houses built on land where the rules only permitted three thousand. If they could get that damned little railway off the land in Long Bustard, that would make room for two hundred of them. He rang for his lackey on the bell push on his shiny desk.

“How are you getting on at Long Bustard?” he asked when the chap appeared.

“My contact is now in a position to be able to assist us. I will be talking to him this weekend,” the lackey replied.

“Good, get them off that land soon as I want the foundations and sewers sinking next month.”

*******

The Town Mayor’s jaw dropped. He was reading a letter from the developers who were to build four thousand houses in the town. The letter from GGD gave him some very unwelcome information. He muttered to himself.

“They cannot do this, can they,” he mumbled, then in a much louder voice he called, “ Councillor, come in here will you please.”

The councillor for the southern area of the town poked his head round the Mayor’s office door, “ You called?”

“Yes, read this,” the Mayor told him handing him the letter.

“Oh hell. Does the railway know this? They’ve done the dirty on us, told you they would,” the councillor said having read it all.

“They are to ‘donate’ a £100,000 towards the community rooms for the new estate. I thought they were going to build them for us? They are to evict the railway and build houses on the land it releases. Where is all this in that legal stuff our solicitors sorted out? Close the railway, not build the new station, this is a disaster.”

The huge company of GGD had very astute solicitors. They were far better than those of the County Council whose permission was required for any planning applications. Very carefully written into the application was the wording that would finally be understood to read that GGD would only ‘pay’ for community rooms. There was nothing in the papers to indicate any ‘new’ railway station. This had all been given by word of mouth and even then carefully worded so as to have two meanings. The implication had been that the community rooms ‘could’ be part of any new station, not that GGD would build it. Hidden in amongst all the legal jargon was a bit about the LBLR having to come up with the money required and if they failed after a time limit the £100,000 would be deposited with the Council. By that means GGD had fulfilled their part of the deal. The rooms could be built anywhere, not necessarily at the LBLR site. The GGD solicitors now set about evicting that damned little part-time railway from ‘their’ land.

When the railway’s little Executive Committee found out these facts they were incandescent with rage.

“How could the county legal bods miss this? Are they blind?” vented Pete at the meeting that evening.

“God only knows. I only hope our own solicitor can see a way out of this. The line drawn around the ‘development land’ on the planning application at County Hall encloses our station and buildings as part of it. They really cocked that bit up. GGD claim we are on their building land and not on ‘amenity land’, which the park is next to us. What a ruddy mess,” John told them all. John is the LBLR planning officer you might remember. “It is obvious that the lackey who drew these maps has never been to Long Bustard in their life and knows nothing of the area or its layout.”

“Sounds like a bloody typical planning office to me,” said Pete.

“The Town Council is behind us, as is our MP and belatedly the County Council. We now need to go to the press and try to get the towns people behind us as well,” Martin added.

The Long Bustard Observer, the local weekly paper known as the LBO, spread the story all over its front page that week. Two national papers picked the story up but only as little notices hidden at the bottom of the page. Look East ignored it. None of this did anything to improve the relations between the LBLR and the GGD management. It was being marketed as a David and Goliath battle, with GGD being the big bad giant.

After an exchange of some pretty vile letters between GGD, the local MP, the planning office and LBLR the Big Boss of GGD agreed to come to the town for a meeting to try to sort out the matter for once and for all. Legally it seemed GGD would win but morally the facts were stacked in the favour of the railway. None of this was doing the public image of the huge developers GGD any good at all. In the public’s eye possession was nine tenths of the law, and the Light Railway had been on that land for nearly ninety years.

**********

To be continued as Part Four.